Boiling Point
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Constant, a thrumming. But why did it seem just so intense when she became... enraged. Why was that? [GSR]


Title: Boiling Point

Author: ScullyAsTrinity

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I'd never work with Carol Mendelson... ever.

Summary: Constant, a thrumming. But why did it seem just so intense when she became... enraged. Why was that?

One hundred: water.

Three fifty-seven: mercury.

Negative two forty-six: neon.

Gil Grissom telling her to stop. That was Sara Sidle's boiling point.

He'd never seen her hair flare like that before. He'd never seen it fan out in such a way; it looked as if it were razor sharp, tiny daggers intent on stabbing him. Her eyes with even more deadly. They weren't a fire, or an inferno; they weren't white with lightning, but they were volatile. Chemicals churning behind the pupils waiting to just... intermingle and combust.

A cork about to let go, but there was no champagne to flow for this party.

But instead of flying off the hinge, instead of unleashing her fury, she calmly placed her pen down on the folder she was reviewing, shut it, pen inside, and stood up. A sickly smile adorned her tired face and Gil Grissom did all he could do not to swallow audibly. He expected her to say something to him; please dear god say something, don't just smile at me.

If he were a cowardly man, which he wasn't, he would have taken one look at the tempest of her eyes and back away, as if she were a predatory animal and he were the prey. Either way, he knew she was hungry...

Sure, synapses were snapping in her head; her tightly reigned composure struggling not to break free. The wheels in her head churned, thinking of every derogatory name she could think of, but she spoke none of them. Her words were her eyes, her smile, her now-quivering lip. How odd was it that at a time when she should be feeling nothing but blinding anger, she was also sad, feeling barren and stripped. But powerful, when she got angry, damn she felt white-hot and powerful, feral. Pissed and passionate. And that passion could go either way.

The lips felt useless, if they could only form the words and speak them aloud...

He hadn't even bothered with formalities, hadn't bothered to sugar coat it... or saccharin dust it for that matter. Just a curt, "You're doing it again" and an arched brow. So technically he hadn't told her to stop, he'd just... hinted at it. Same difference.

Stung though, it still stung her, like a wet-palmed slap to the face. But that was fine; that was fine, she literally grinned and bared it. And then she walked out of the room, leaving an anti-climax in her wake. Grissom stood there, soaking up the anger she's dropped, wondering, as always, about the corners, the recesses of her mind and what they held.

Grissom, he liked cement. Firm, unyielding. So different from the linoleum he stood on, threatening to swallow him whole. As he watched her disappear into the locker room with a cacophony of slamming metal, he let his throat swallow the large lump that still sat there.

She, grabbing her jacket and duffel bag felt nothing but the blood coursing through her veins. Saw red behind her eyes and heard the incessant thump of it beat at her temples. Constant, a thrumming. But why did it seem just so intense when she became... enraged. Why was that?

She didn't know why, nevertheless, the blood continued to thrum away as Sara tore out of the building and stalked to her vehicle. Erratic driving was a definite now, unless she paused to cool down. But she didn't feel like cooling down. She felt like just, just driving. Away. Home. Somewhere, anywhere really. Who cared.

She felt like having sex. She really felt like having sex. Sweating and clawing and yelling and pounding and just breathing. So deep.

But, since she didn't really have that option, she chose to simply sweat. Entering her house like a renegade tornado, she threw her things down on the floor near the entrance, slammed the door and began stripping off her clothes. She went to her bedroom and emerged in a pair of cut-off sweatpants and a new sports bra, wanting much more than to simply do stomach crunches to relieve her of her tension. She needed to feel someone sliding over her, taking the punishment she wanted to dole out.

And only one person could be the recipient of that punishment, of that burnt angst. Not an option, even it if was an option... it wouldn't be an option.

Sublimating her rage with spandex and exercise was just about all she could think to do. So, throwing out the lethargy in her bones, she popped in a CD and sat on the floor, pulling out her yoga mat before she did so. After taking a few calming breaths, she realized that the atmosphere just wouldn't do. Yoga was supposed to be peaceful, meditational, but that wasn't what she was feeling.

At last, she put in a hard rock album and turned up the heat in the apartment and sat back down, smiling as she did so, hating just... so many things in that one moment. Hating everything but herself. That was a start, a good start. Something to spur her stretching.

Beginning with her neck she moved down, arms, torso, lower torso, legs, ankles, feet. Instead of relaxing her, it simply seemed to open the floodgates of her anger and it began to course through her more urgently than it had before.

He'd never come back there, never. Any courage he'd had was surely gone by now, having both waxed and waned, played itself out. It had surely been enough for him, to lend her comfort. Perhaps to placate himself. And yes, it had been good for her and she had indeed sensed that things would change...

But they hadn't. They didn't. They never would.

Twice, two times he'd been in her apartment. The first time, much more relaxed, friendly, inviting. Baring a housewarming gift of sorts, he'd knocked on the door and when she'd opened it, he was smiling, welcoming her to the city of sin.

Sara's head turned mid-position to gaze at the delicate specimen of a butterfly that sat on her desk. Bitterly, she smiled; amusing how one touch to the beautiful thing would destroy it. But none of it had to do with beauty; inconsequential.

Sara threw herself out of the lotus and onto her back. She began crunches with a vengeance, huffing out little puffs of air as she strained the muscles of her already toned stomach. The mat squeaked against her slickened skin and smiled; it spurred her directly into another set of crunching her stomach and loathing Gil Grissom. A happy little existence.

It cracked and crumbled though, somewhere in the middle of her twenty-first set, when a knock resounded on the hollow wood of her door.

It really couldn't be. The fates wouldn't allow it to be. Probability was against her. Physics and biology and chemistry... even history and architecture was against her. The stars, the moon... the traffic and the weather. Logic, the biggest player in the damnation of a game... was against her. All of it was against the chance...

That he was at her door.

But he was.

And she chose not to be stunned. And she chose not to get dress. And she chose to throw open her door in a display of anger, only to encountered by his angry, but confused gaze. "I didn't want you to leave like that." The anger won out, at least in his words and he made a move to step forward into her living space.

Her chest heaved; Again, anger and angst, pain and passion. "Come in here and I'm not responsible for what happens." Sara stated, all business, but was given away by her eyes... once more. Tentatively, so tentative, he took a step towards her, his eyes still solid... like concrete. No, more like... linoleum.

Tongue leaden in her mouth, breath stopped in her chest. He knew very well what he was doing, and so did she. Too well. It sprang to life then, her body, it sprang to life. She moved around him to shut, no, slam the door...

And press him against it with one arm.

Never let it be said that Sara Sidle wasn't a strong woman.

His chin, attempting to look dignified, actually looked frightened as it quivered beneath her intense stare. "I've been hurt." Grissom said, very quietly.

"Yeah well, so have I."

And she kissed him then, pressed against the warm wood, her sweat marking his dark shirt.

She'd passed boiling; she'd spilled over.

BNLXPhile12: But it was smooth? Did it seem in character at least?

SUNNYDALE1909: Of course it did. Who else would know the characters better than you?

BNLXPhile12: The writers of the show. -P

SUNNYDALE1909: Maybe you should take over their job. People would be more satisfied with the show. BNLXPhile12: Then it'd have to be on like... showtime. Lol.

SUNNYDALE1909: Hahah... or pay per view. "Is this csi or porno?" Is what people would ask. Then everyone else would say, what different does it make?

BNLXPhile12: Then maybe my ulcer would go away.

SUNNYDALE1909: Haha blame an ulcer on a tv show.

BNLXPhile12: It's ENTIRELY possible.


End file.
